You still think of me when you fuck her (I know you do)
by Molko P
Summary: [CLEXA][ANGST][HAPPY ENDING][SMUT]- Don't you dare to forget that you're mine. – Lexa murmurs at the earlobe, biting there. She thrusts one time harder and it's enough to make Clarke shudder. – Don't you dare to forget that I'm yours. – She confesses, now kissing and soothing the flushed skin. - I'm yours, Clarke. – She repeats between thrusts. - I'm yours. – She vows.


**N/A: Hi!**

 **This is my second fanfiction of The 100. English is not my first language, and I'm sorry for any typos and any wrong sentences.**

 **IMPORTANT: This fanfiction is divided in subchapters, but the facts contained in them are not necessarily related nor need a temporal sequence. It's more like some kind of vignettes.**

 **IMPORTANT 2: This is the first part of a small series of Clexa fics inspired by brazilian songs - It means a lot to me that you guys read the first lines right after the subchapter number. They are free translations of the musics which inspired my work and are veryyyyyy related to the development of this fanfiction.**

 **I hope you enjoy it!**

YOU STILL THINK OF ME WHEN YOU FUCK HER (I KNOW YOU DO)

I

 _When you walked out that door_

 _You said to me: "Darling, it's late, and it doesn't matter._

 _You will find a new lover, too."_

She's going to come.

Niylah's skilled tongue is evoking her deepest desires as a tidal wave – growing, growing, _growing_ until she can't hold it anymore. She needs, oh how she needs, this damn fucking release.

And it do comes.

Clarke feels her own blood running hot in her cheeks and inside her guts, hard in her cunt, filling everywhere with hormones. Her legs are open, her eyes are shut, her hands – goddamnit where are her hands? Tangled on the other girl's braids, asking, urging, pleading for _any_ release.

 _Please, please, please._

She moans softly, the heated muscle reaching a – _Oh my god!_ – so sensitive spot. Her hips are now moving, trusting into the girl's mouth – which is lost in deep pleasure, too, holding hard Clarke's body by her ass, marking the sensible white skin with blunt nails.

Griffin cries out.

And it happens.

One single touch at the apex of the moment and she falls into reality.

Niylah buries one single finger inside Clarke – and it slips inside her oh-so-easily. She starts to ride it.

And she starts to remember.

Oh fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

 _Fuck._

But it's not that good fuck we are talking about. It's not even _this_ fucking that it's happening right now.

Oh, so far from that.

So months far.

II

 _When you walked out that door_

 _I faced myself on the mirror, perplexed, exposed_

 _And I begged to the gods to snatch you and my pain._

Lexa is so drunk.

Lexa is so drunk that right now she is curled into a ball in the middle of her own living room.

 _Look at you, Commander. Suffering for a stupid breakup. Suffering for a stupid relationship. Weeping, boozed, for a stupid blonde_.

Her stupid blonde.

She falls apart. She can hear the cracks of her heart, broken in a tiny million pieces.

 _Oh, how lame, Commander_.

She moans hoarsely, mourning, grieving.

And ridiculously drunk.

Oh, how she misses her.

 _Please, please, please,_

 _Take this pain away._ – She prays to the almost empty bottle of vodka on her hand (because actually she doesn't believe in gods).

(But maybe now she does.)

(She believes in anything that can take this pain away.)

(She prays: _Please, please, please._ )

She weeps.

III

 _I've made the night as my home._

 _I've loved a thousand men, I've drank 'til dawn._

 _Then you've returned with watery eyes and claiming to me._

 _\- Get out of my house._

 _\- Lexa, you need to list-_

 _\- I don't fucking care, Clarke. I'm done. I'm so fucking DONE._

 _\- Lexa, you are being childish and you have to stop it, it was just an-_

 _\- Get. Out._

Lexa's eyes are cold as winter wind, jaw clenched in point of pain. She is not sweet anymore; she is not soft and lovely anymore.

She is pure pain.

She is raw as bloody flesh.

Clarke swallows a dry lump down her troat. She gulps once, twice. Her eyes are watery and her hands are trembling.

In the middle of the living room, they stood still, facing each other, ice and fire, sky and earth.

But she can see right through that stonewall of coldness: Lexa is suffering. Lexa is changeling all her demons to do not fall apart, raising her sword and screaming war chants even with open and bleeding wounds. She is a fighter – even when it's about Clarke.

She is fighting against her deepest and madly love of her entire life – because she can't understand. She can bare this pain… This pain…

This pain of betrayal.

And to think that Lexa had betrayed her years ago. Not like this – Not in this exact situation, but it was a betrayal, too.

Can Clarke compare these two situations?

(Maybe yes.)

(Maybe not.)

Clarke sighs. One single stubborn tear drops from her eye.

 _\- Okay._

She walks out the door without another word.

Internally, Lexa shouts, she screams to drop off that stupid idea and run towards the door and hug Clarke, and ask for forgiveness, and tell her that she forgives her, and cry, and kiss, and cry again.

Externally, Lexa stays frozen in place.

Lexa weeps. Frozen, cold, melting and broken as an iceberg during the global warming.

Clarke, inside the elevator, hold back her tears.

Clarke, outside the building, weeps curled against the steering wheel.

IV

 _Yeah, it's screwed._

 _You wanted to blame me for your desire._

 _Maybe somehow it was my fault._

 _I wanted to wait for the moment of goodbye._

Lexa closes the front door, kicking her boots off and dropping her books on the shelf. Drifting her eyes around the tiny apartment, she concludes that it's still the same as yesterday and the day-before-yesterday and weeks-before-yesterday: lifeless, monochromatic, painfully clean and in order.

She misses the mess.

She misses the easels and papers and oil paints and crayons and pencils and pens and every little material that used to remain in every corner of her apartment.

She misses the "Hi, babe!" soothing her ears when she arrives from her daily classes.

She misses the welcoming kisses.

She misses the scent of sweet perfume and oil and thai food from that suspicious restaurant at the end of the street.

She misses the colors.

She misses the sound of cheesy pop music.

She misses everything.

But she can forget the pain.

It's too much to forget.

It's too much too think.

She drops her keys and purse and everything and lays on the floor. She looks at the ceiling.

She breathes in.

She breathes out.

Maybe it was her fault, somehow.

Maybe she deserved that.

She curls around herself.

(This time without the bottle of vodka.)

She closes her eyes.

And starts to remember.

V

 _You profaned me, burned me, asked to god_

 _with all your strength to my body became yours_

 _You comforted me, justified and said: I'm yours!_

 _\- Oh my god, Lexa, fuck,_ _ **yes**_ _._

Clarke is straddling the brunette's thighs while rides her finger – yes, one single finger, thrusting deeply inside her. One and hot and languid finger that reaches her sensitive spot in a magic and inexplicable way.

Clarke is panting, sweaty and grabbing any piece of skin that she can with hungry hands. She scratches Lexa's back, thighs, neck, and _rides._ She moves her hips back and forth, back and forth.

And she feels everything. With one single finger.

And a trail of open mouth kisses along her jaw, and low grunts, and dirty demands.

She obeys every single one.

 _Call my name._

 _Tell me you're mine._

 _Touch yourself._

And she obeys.

Oh, how blindly and willingly she obeys to her voluptuous commander.

And she loves her.

 _\- Don't you dare to forget that you're mine._ – Lexa murmurs at the earlobe, biting there. She thrusts one time harder and it's enough to make Clarke shudder. – _Don't you dare to forget that I'm yours._ – She confesses, now kissing and soothing the flushed skin.

\- _I'm yours, Clarke._ – She repeats between thrusts.

 _\- I'm yours. –_ She vows.

Clarke accepts.

And collapses.

Clarke loses herself in the strength of her own orgasm and in the green forest of Lexa's eyes.

VI

 _You carried me on your arms but suddenly you hided yourself_

 _behind an another girl_

 _another romance_

 _killing your hunger forlove_

 _with another lover._

She is on the apex of her pleasure.

She is blind to everything around her and she sees with the eye of her mind, her own delusions.

She sees.

Oh how good she sees everything.

But it is not quite right.

It's not _quite_ right.

Something is off.

It's not that way.

 _It's not this way_ , she thinks.

Nyilah is finger-fucking her and lapping at her clit but is not _that_ way. It's not. It's not.

It's _not_. It's arousing and it triggers memories in her mind – pleasure ones – but it's not exactly that way that she used to feel.

And it cools everything down a bit.

But she is so close.

 _So_ close.

She struggle with her memories. She thinks, and thinks, and…

She focuses on one word.

Two syllables.

Eyes closed, hands clenched, tangled in blonde braids that she pretends they're brown and curly. She rocks her hips, back and forth.

And she sees.

She feels.

And it's so strong to do not be real! But it's not real.

It's not her.

It's not Lexa.

She is being fucked for someone else that it's not Lexa. She is having an orgasm but it's not strong as the ones that Lexa used to give to her.

She thinks of Lexa, and wishes for Lexa, and in the back of her mind, she calls for Lexa. Clarke can feel the weight of her name stuck on her throat, creating a lump that it's impossible to swallow.

She moans audibly. She moans incomprehensible words but she wishes it was Lexa's name. And she almost hear Lexa's humming with the sounds of her yelps.

Almost.

When the blonde open her eyes, her heart escapes a beat.

(And it breaks a little.)

\- Hey. – The other blonde says with a smug smile, sucking her own finger, still nested between Clarke's thighs.

Clarke sighs.

Sadness washes every remaining of the previous pleasure.

But she smiles anyway.

\- Hey, yourself.

VII

 _You still think of me when you fuck her._

 _I know you do._

In her drunkenness, Lexa smile to the void of the night.

She knows.

In her drunkenness, she knows that nobody does what Lexa does.

And she laughs because of it.

Nobody knows how to feel Clarke like she does. Nobody.

Nobody knows how to fuck Clarke like she does.

How to please.

How to soothe.

How to understand.

And she cries because of it.

Nobody knows how to love Clarke like she does.

Stumbling on her own feet, she reaches the phone and dial a number. The precise one that she has deleted from her phone but she still knows it by heart.

She tangles her free hand through messy locks of brown hair.

Nobody answers.

(Raven told Octavia who told Lincoln who told Lexa that maybe, _maybe_ , Jasper – who is Clarke's neighbour, saw her and another blonde going into Griffin's apartment.)

(Maybe it's true.)

(Maybe it's not.)

A sudden anger takes control of her body, she throws her phone away and it hits the last portrait of them two together on the closest shelf. It falls.

She stands in a rush and grabs the portrait from the floor.

Now it's broken.

There is a crack on the glass, right above the angelical face of her blonde.

Clarke is broken.

And so is she.

Lexa weeps again.

VIII

 _Don't you think that I've ran away only because I saw you with another lover._

 _I was silent not for free but because my chest suffocated my voice._

 _I've vanished and would vanish again because I wanted you beyond everything, my love._

 _The love that you've felt for me was little, and my love is big as the sea._

Lexa cries silently, every night, curled on her – suddenly too big – bed.

Clarke passes relentlessly, every night, by Lexa's building and ponders about calling her.

(Lexa does not drink until passes out on her carpet anymore.)

(Clarke does not fuck Nyilah anymore.)

When it's too painful to use distractions, you just embrace the pain and accepts it.

Until it doesn't hurt anymore.

The question is:

Will it stop hurting someday?

IX

 _But if you wrote me a letter asking me to come back to you_

 _Or an e-mail, smoke signal, a dream, cellphone message,_

 _Telling me that you want me, that life without me is worthless._

 _Love of my life, I would go back to you,_

 _And I would never leave you again._

It's early morning. And Lexa wakes from maybe a two hours (?) nap. She rubs her heavy and still exhausted eyes, dragging her own feet towards the kitchen.

The fridge is empty. The sink is full of empty bottles and mugs.

She is starving and exhausted and her eyes burns.

And she misses the way that Clarke would mock her for letting her kitchen run out of food.

 _Look at you, commander! Procrastinating your obligations of buying food. We will starve to death thanks to you._

She can almost hear her voice and it irritates her. It's ridiculous how Clarke can mock her even without being there.

She closes the fridge's door and goes to the living room – The sun is rising at the window and it's golden as Clarke's hair.

Breathing in, she pretends that her girl is still asleep while Lexa makes their breakfast.

Breathing out, she laughs at her own pathetic delusion.

She hears a message alert from her phone.

And another.

And another.

And a succession of message alerts after.

(It's still on the floor. Although the portrait it's on it's original place and position beside the crack.)

She grabs it.

(Her heart pounds painfully inside her chest.)

 **[06:53] UNKNOWN NUMBER: I know how hard that it's for you. But I just wanted you to know that I miss you.**

 **[06:53] UNKNOWN NUMBER: I'm sorry that screwed everything up.**

 **[06:54] UNKNOWN NUMBER: Please let me try again.**

 **[06:54] UNKNOWN NUMBER: Let us try again.**

 **[06:55] UNKNOWN NUMBER: I miss you.**

 **[06:55] UNKNOWN NUMBER: I miss our home.**

 **[06:56] UNKNOWN NUMBER: I'm sorry.**

Lexa weeps for the millionth time.

X

 _But if I am worth more than this girl, than this romance,_

 _Please, give our love_

 _A second chance._

 **[07:01] LEXA: Don't be.**

 **[07:02] LEXA: Come home.**

Clarke goes.

Her hope – of not healing everything completely, of course, but giving it another try - rises as the sun at her window.

And she goes.


End file.
